Excavate

Vulnerable

The heavy fog of waking up from the influence of his pain medication was quickly becoming a most-hated sensation for Riley. He never felt rested, only heavy. His mouth was dry and cottony, and his limbs felt glued to the bed. Riley's pain was duller, more of a low buzz than a sharp staccato.

In a disoriented haze, he peeled himself off his bed, his clothes greasy and crumpled. His nose crinkled as his own body odor offended him. He fleetingly thought of how disgusting it was that he'd been in the same clothes for a week, and that the extent of his bathing was a wet rag he'd rubbed against his face with his forearms each day. Sure, he felt gross, but if his mom could barely tolerate the exacerbating task of feeding him, he didn't want to face the degrading humiliation of having her reluctantly bathe him as well.

The bandages around his feet coiled tightly with each slow step. He could feel each laceration opening under the pressure of his body-weight, but the discomfort barely touched him. Riley's mind was on a single track still: survival.

You have to take care of yourself Riley.

By age seven he'd been well-versed in the fact that survival did not equate comfort. Survival meant eating enough to not faint, not enough to satisfy his screaming stomach because he didn't know how long he'd have to make this food last before dad came back. Survival meant his hands and feet being so cold that they hurt, but not to the point of being numb as he curled up under a pile of towels after the heat was turned off in January. If he was still shivering, he was okay, he'd learned. Once he stopped shivering, that's when things became dangerous.

Right now, survival meant getting himself water because he hadn't eaten or drank anything in nearly 24 hours, even though his feet were bleeding through his bandages and he never wanted to think or feel anything ever again.

The dichotomy between his mind and body was maddening. All he wanted was to lay in bed and let his body atrophy until he didn't exist any longer. The confirmation that his mom cared so little about him that she'd practically been privy to his abuse had decimated any desire to care about himself.

If his dad beat him half to death and his mom cared so little that she let it happen, then what worth could he possibly have as a human being?

So, so worthless Riley. How did you not realize this earlier?

But at the same time that he would be happy letting himself waste away into a forgotten corpse, his body kept demanding relief and sustenance. Right now it was demanding water because his lips were cracked to the point where he could feel them pull apart and taste the metallic blood on his tongue.

It was frustrating enough that he wanted to pull his hair out, but he couldn't do that either because of his stupid hands.

Resigned to the probability that he would have to see his mom or Brad and deal with the awkwardness of having broken all of their plates, simply to ask for a glass of water, Riley, taking small, gingerly steps, made his way toward the stairs.

An uproar of jovial laughter gave him pause just as he stood at the top of the staircase. He stood frozen, listening closer.

Utensils clanged against glassware and chairs being pushed in and pulled out were underscored by the din of a happy family conversing and enjoying each other's company.

He glanced up at the large ornate clock face on the wall and saw that it was just past six in the evening. So, dinnertime then.

Having been present for a couple of these affairs, though as an unwelcome observer on the sidelines, he didn't have to think hard to imagine what he was missing out on. A pair of happy and proud parents and their three prized children sitting around a table, smiling, and laughing while they passed around food dishes and asked each other about their days. Brad encouraging Matt and Audrey to eat their vegetables while Sharon praised Andy for actually eating and not tossing his food to the vigilant Murph perched at attention next to his booster seat.